Cliched
by moonlit flower
Summary: Naruto, a writer, has lived his life like his novels. That is, until he is met by the wall of reality. SasuNaru. Minificlet. AU


It's a SasuNaru break-up fic-let. I have an affinity for such things.

Disclaimer: You lawyers made a sad girl cry…I do not own Naruto.

* * *

So, you left me broken in a chair after all these years. Walked out of my middle classed apartment not wanting to see the hurt pooling in my eyes. The hurt that should be self-evident yet. I slid down to the frigid floor because it seemed to fit. Black and white checked tiles that melded into the story I was creating. So precious many people break up. So precious to me because they are a string attached to my own lyrics.

I doubt I can feel anymore the stringent cries of reality and loll about on the floor without a purpose. Things like this happen in real life, in the pieces I read, the stories I write. They are conventional, orthodox. I have taken a likeness to my own novels. Yet, now I feel too tired to think coherent thoughts. Too tired to break a new emotion into the mix. But then, as a writer I should follow the clichés, should I not.

The proverbial broken bottle of brandy rolling from my hand. I followed the other clichés in life _so_ faithfully. When we met I became brash and unfinished, spewing whatever thought was on hand. It was brilliant, like a makeshift fairytale I _lived_ my life.

The cold kitchen tiles are still clawing at my skin even as I rise. The refrigerator still hums softly when I open it. I cannot help but wonder if all the grime that had collected at its handle and door fit symbolically into my story. It might stand for all the shit I had put up for in our relationship or perhaps my life and with one clean swipe of detergent you could have taken it all away and left me shining.

Even my musing have grown stupid to pen.

Glasses clink as I decide against any form of containment for my bottled angst. It would be sacrilegious to literature that way. A handle digs into my back as I settle on the floor with an unlabelled bottle of wine. I don't mind the pain for a while; everything seems symbolic yet of our meeting, parting and in betweens. A thought hits the back of my mind seeping, weeding through the romanticism of this moment.

'Who would read this to care.'

As I mull this over I realize that no one would notice if I shifted-just a bit- and let the small hurt go away. Sasuke should arrive here soon and fly into a rage at my obsessive drinking. Everything _has_ to be on schedule or else our fight would be unromantic.

Our first date had been perfectly fitting. We went to the lake and fed ducks, chattering all the way. But also we held hands. Your slim white strong hand wrapped around my small stumpy tan one perfectly. When we got back to my abode you leaned down. I can still remember the way your ebony hair would hang low, shielding those even darker _fervid_ eyes of yours. Then, you would nuzzle against my forehead, my cheek, my lips. I was born for you; anyone could see that.

The bottle skips empty and you still haven't come. I try to gaze at the clock but manage to muster only a glare because of the fuzz filming my brain.

'What would it take for you to come? Why won't you come?'

Again I think of another cliché so frequently used. That the boyfriend never comes back until the hero flies off the deep end.

Glass makes such a harsh sound when it shatters on the floor.

There are red, ruby drops and unfathomable purple shards illuminating the white tiles now. The glass feels smooth in my palm, almost an ethereal shade of lilac tinting my skin. I try to raise it; it easily slides over to my wrist and freezes to my skin. Just a little further and you'll come back. Just a little harder and you'll burst in. Just a little pain and you'll save me. All this I know and yet, I can't do it.

My hand drops the shard slowly, relinquishing any hope of your return. Humanity is still thriving beneath me, all around me. It's pressurizing me! I need to settle down, to dart away from all the patronizing glares.

'Like a minnow. I like fish.'

The warm sunshine siphons the heat away from my body when I throw open the door. This is wrong too, another defect. The day should have been a heralded our parting with gray clouds and stormy skies.

There is nothing to clear up when it's all clear. So is it? Clear that is. Is it clear?

Raindrops fall from my face despite, perhaps to spite-everything has gotten ever so tangled now- the sunny morning. "Why won't you clear it up? Why won't it clear up?"

"Naruto? I came to-"

"Can't you clear it up for me? If you can't clear it up I don't know what I'll do. I can't do it- I'm. I'll- I-I'll, will…' The writer fisted handfuls of Sasuke's dark slacks as he run to tears.

Sasuke scooped Naruto in his arms and cradled the drunk sobbing writer against himself. He could feel Naruto's cries seeping through his thin dress shirt. They would have to talk through a lot of things later, but for now the two were immobile, etched by words into literature's time.

* * *

Okay, so I had to have a happy ending… I meant to make Naruto keel up at the banister of his apartment. Teeter for a few nerve racking seconds and then fall. But…he's too cute to splat upon a granite floor. And well, I suppose it could still be a tragic ending if Sasuke died on the way to their relationship builder's meeting, right?

With a few words, you can make a life worth living. Those few words can be used to purchase a cup of coffee, or feed the aspiring writer that would fain to give into despair without them.


End file.
